False Faces
by HoistTheColours
Summary: Join the Society.


_**Author's Notes:**_ This is a realistic, gritty revamp of the Doug Moench origin comic, _Black Mask: Losing face_, now set in Nolanverse.

* * *

On the front page of the _The Gotham Times_, Roman Sionis's birth announcement is prominently displayed in bold, black letters. "The Birth of an Heir", it reads. Just beneath that, however, is another announcement, in a column all its own, stating that Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Wayne have returned from abroad and are also "expecting".

Mrs. Sionis—where she is sitting in bed against the headboard—clutches the newspaper with one hand until her knuckles are alabaster. Cradled in her other arm and suckling at her breast is her newborn. He is paid little attention as she lets out an irritated breath and tosses the newspaper to Charles's vacated side of the bed.

It's just like Martha Wayne to steal the spotlight from her, to steal her thunder like this. To announce that she's pregnant only a _day _after Mrs. Sionis has given birth to Roman—the nerve of that woman. She sees red flares burst behind her lids when she closes them, only to have her eyes snap open a second later—followed by a sharp cry of pain—when Roman suckles just a bit too hard. She grimaces and shifts to make herself more comfortable.

As she leans back against the headboard, closing her eyes and pushing all thoughts of Martha Wayne out of her mind, she thinks about how impatient she is to leave bed and see her personal trainer so they can work off the thirty pounds she put on while pregnant with Roman. She has been put on strict bed rest for the next two days though, courtesy of her fluke of a doctor—and "fluke", she thinks, is putting it mildly. Moments after Roman's delivery, her newborn was dropped on his head, having slipped right out of the doctor's hands. It was the single most horrifying moment of her life. Images of a deformed son flashed through her mind, a son who spent his days confined to a wheelchair who had wistless, wandering eyes, and drool constantly gathering around the corners of his mouth. The mere thought was almost unbearable. Imagine, the heir to Janus Cosmetics, permanently crippled and cognitively impaired for the rest of his life.

Still, she did not press charges against the doctor, knowing that would only lead to a highly-publicized lawsuit and shade the company and their prestigious family name in a negative light. Roman was unharmed, anyway, with no visible injuries detected. By all regards, the birth had been a success; a healthy baby, a healthy mother. That was all the information the press needed to know.

The only thing that did not sit well with Mrs. Sionis was what she had overheard one of the assisting nurses whisper to another, which was that there seemed to be a strange sort of dullness in Roman's eyes.

She pulls Roman away from her breast to look into eyes. His tiny mouth forms an 'O', opens and closes, still searching for something to latch onto, and then his eyes blink open and she _sees_, sees the dullness there in those black orbs, the emptiness.

At that moment, a knock sounds on the bedroom door. Mrs. Sionis covers her breasts with a blanket and pulls Roman closer to her chest. He latches greedily back on and she hides a pained grimace.

"Come in."

Her husband, dressed smartly in a fitted brown suit, enters carrying another copy of _The Times_. He holds it up and waves it for her benefit.

"The photographers are here," he says, and he sounds pleased, "clamoring in the foyer for the heir's first portrait. There's still time for the photo to make next week's issue."

"Charles!" she cries, and she is already reaching with her free hand for the bedside table where mascaras and lipsticks and powders and nail polishes—all products of Janus Cosmetics—are scattered in a mess of brightly-colored bottles and tubes. "You couldn't have warned me sooner?" She grabs a hairbrush and quickly smoothes it through blonde, sandy-colored waves. Her lips twist into a scowl and she reaches next for a powdered foundation that will mask any shine that the bright flashbulbs might create.

"At least let me put my _face_ on."

* * *

Roman's childhood is, in a word, lavish.

Ostentatious is another word; boring, maybe, and he can't forget _fake_. Every time Roman smiles it's at the insistent urging of his mother, and it feels so forced, so plastered, that he can't help but wonder if everyone sees what a phony he is, what an undeniable charade he's putting on. When the corners of his mouth pull back and his teeth are bared, he feels like a stranger in his own skin.

Actually, he feels a bit like a marionette, like the corner of his lips are attached to strings pulled by some invisible puppeteer, stretched to the point of pain. After a while the muscles in his cheeks ache and his eyes water. He fucking hates it.

He says that last part out loud.

"Roman _Sionis_," his mother says, scandalized, like it's shocking that a twelve year-old spoiled rich boy says the word 'fucking'. It's an undignified word, she tells him. It's not _gentlemanly_.

He settles into the butter-cream leather backseat of the Rolls Royce, a little smug. "You should tell that to the kids at school," he replies, and his mother just purses her lips and gives him a Look, because his private school is expensive and exclusive only to the most elite of Gotham, and his mother gets upset anytime she hears something _unbecoming_ about Gotham Hills Middle School for the Gifted.

Gifted, in this case, meaning that your daddy's an executive for some firm or the other and is therefore loaded.

No one's as loaded as the Wayne family, though. He knows this for a fact because not only is everything in Gotham stamped with the Wayne signature logo—a giant black 'W' bracketed by horizontal lines on either side, 'Wayne Enterprises' written in capitals just below it—but also because the Wayne's are where his parents put on their most sickly-sweet and saccharine performances.

He's sitting on an overstuffed, floral couch at their manor right now, next to his mother and father. Bruce Wayne, a year younger than Roman, is doing the same across from him, sandwiched between his own parents. Roman is quiescent and uncaring of how bored he looks, choosing instead to stare out the massive French windows to his left rather than listen to the conversation going on. Every once in a while he bothers to glance over at the Waynes across from him and frequently catches the eye of Bruce. He offers what Roman thinks is something akin to an apologetic smile, as if he _sympathizes _with the way Roman's brain is bleeding out through his ears; mostly he looks constipated. Roman ignores him.

"I think that's a great idea, Charles." Mr. Wayne is speaking. "I do think it'd be good for Bruce and Roman to become close."

Roman's mother nudges him in the side with an elbow and Roman turns to Mr. Wayne.

"You're welcome here any time, Roman," Mr. Wayne says when their eyes meet. Roman thinks he has soft, sympathetic eyes that mirror his son's. Roman sees that as a weakness."Bruce would be more than happy to have someone to play with." Mrs. Wayne, when he looks to her, nods as if to confirm this. She's got her curls pinned back in a similar fashion to his mother's—or maybe his mother's got her curls pinned back in a similar fashion to Mrs. Wayne's.

Roman nods in response, polite, but just barely refrains from rolling his eyes. _Play?_ They're twelve, not two. What does he think they're going to do, roll around in the sandbox together and get out their GI Joes?

In the driveway, their chauffeur closes the door after they're all inside, and his mother is beaming, pleased as punch. Her cheeks are flushed pink.

"_Mm_," she intones, "I think that went _very _well, don't you, Charles?"

Charles nods—curt, uninterested, and only half listening—and returns to his paper, already absorbed in today's headlines; the Dow Jones dropped one hundred and twenty-three points. Roman wants to roll his eyes at his father's flippancy, even if he can't really blame him for his behavior. His mother leans _just_ on the precipice of being painstakingly unbearable when not in the company of public eyes and ears. She's poised and practiced and polite in front of the people that matter, but the moment she's out of earshot or in the seclusion of her own home, the floodgates open and a barrage of words come spilling out. All of it is gossip and inane drivel that makes Roman's ears bleed. He knows why his father doesn't listen, why he shields himself behind his newspapers or in his office, where he can hide under the guise of being busy and otherwise preoccupied.

His father's reticent behavior, of course, leaves Roman victim to his mother's idiotic musings.

She clears her throat to get his attention, and Roman reluctantly tears his eyes from the passing landscape—grass neat, green, all cut the same length, and immaculately trimmed bushes lining a gravel drive—and gives his mother a look that says he's never been more uninterested in whatever she has to say than he is right now.

He's being an insolent dick and he knows it.

She narrows her eyes at him, as close to a glower as she'll ever get. "I wish you wouldn't look so put-out by this, Roman. The Waynes are very influential friends."

He scoffs, unable to help himself. "Friends?" he spits. The scorn laced within his tone drips like acid. "You hate them! And yet you spent half the afternoon trying to crawl up Martha Wayne's ass."

That gets his father's attention right quick. He's listening after all.

"_Roman Sionis_!" The newspaper slaps down against the front of his thighs when he lowers it. It's hard to get a reaction out of his father, usually, at least behind closed doors, when the masks come off and his parents morph into different people entirely. Unless you're talking Janus, stocks and commodities, or politics, you can be certain that he's only lending half an ear or he isn't listening at all; Roman's last comment is apparently triggering enough. He masks his smirk by looking away, out the window again. He hears his mother breathing hard, like his comment has physically knocked the wind out of her. Good.

But because she isn't usually one to be laconic, he braces himself for the oncoming speech.

"I wish you wouldn't say crude things like that," she says quietly, after a long pause of silence. She folds her hands in her lap. He can feel her eyes boring holes into him and it makes him itch. "I know it's hard to understand, and you might not care right now, but there are social circles we have to maintain, Roman." She's still speaking softly. "Befriending the right people opens doors, and not only for the company. It's our..." she pauses to consider the right words, "our societal obligation. The galas, charity benefits, lunch dates—"

"It's all about who you're seen with," Roman deadpans, flicking his eyes towards his mother's. "You don't give a shit about donating to whatever cause. The only thing that matters is drinking fancy champagne and _mingling _with whoever has the biggest wallet."

When Roman's mother speaks next, her eyes are narrowed and her voice has lost its previous gentleness. Her lips are stretched thin and tight in her effort to remain calm.

"We each have roles to fulfill, Roman. It's what is expected of us, of this family. This is a delicate and intricate game we're playing, do you understand that?" She pauses, sighs. "I may not be fond of Martha Wayne, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her. She is a pawn, Roman. It's my obligation to this society to make nice with the chest pieces we need so that we may utilize them for our benefit in the future."

Roman narrows his eyes but still doesn't turn to look at her. _That sure is pithy_, he thinks, because he knows what she means to say is, _"Your father's trying to build an empire and Wayne Industries is our ticket to fame." _

His father hoped to create a joint enterprise, Roman knew.

"_Two halves are not as powerful as one whole, after all,"_ he always said.

"Anyway," his mother prattles on, "I don't expect you to understand. You're just a boy." _As if anyone could understand your circumlocutory bullshit,_ he doesn't say. "But I do expect you to fulfill every obligation I ask of you, and to at least _pretend _to smile while you do it. It's the least you can do for me, for this family."

So Roman does. He does fulfill every obligation. He spends time with Bruce, he wears little man-suits and slicks back his hair and goes to galas and fundraisers with his parents—follows at their heels like a damn _puppy_—and smiles every time he's prompted; smiles for every flashbulb, every ridiculous joke, every politician, and every socialite.

Roman smiles until it hurts.

The marionette above him, he likes to imagine, is cruel and black-eyed and grinning even harder than he is.

* * *

That summer, only a week after school's let out, Roman's father snatches up a lavish estate on the upper west side of Jersey, in the North Woods, two hours from the coast. They plan to stay there a month.

_Fucking great_, Roman thinks.

Not that staying at home is any better, because when he's not at parties or galas or posing at photo-ops for the homeless shelter downtown, he's cooped up in the house, bored and alone—but at least he can be bored and alone in the comfort of his own home, and not in some previously-lived in drafty mansion in the middle of Timbuktu, in some off-the-map town he's never heard of.

"It's just a _month,_ Roman. Don't look so sour about it."

His mother.

He's willing to bet his entire inheritance that this had been _her_ idea.

Roman stands in front of the suitcase stretched across his king-sized bed and wonders what the hell to pack. He doesn't own very many clothes that aren't suits or tuxes or pressed, iron slacks or button-ups that are tailored specifically for him.

The only t-shirt he owns is the one he wears to bed.

It doesn't dawn on him that there's probably something wrong with this, wrong with the fact that the only clothes a twelve year-old boy owns are suits and collared polos and navy dress slacks. He doesn't own any graphic t-shirts with logos emblazoned across the chest, or mesh shorts with the Nike checkmark in the corner, or sports jackets or Converse sneakers or faded jeans. Hell, he doesn't own a pair of jeans at all, let alone the kind with holes and bleach stains like the ones he sees the city kids wearing.

Somewhere in all this, he hears his mother's voice reverberating in his head, _"First impressions are the most important, Roman. We don't want to make a poor one."_ He supposes that's true; his mother may be the most supercilious person he knows, but he's never had reason to question the logic before.

With a sigh, he hefts a pile of neatly-folded polos and khaki dress slacks into the suitcase and thinks about asking the maid to pack for him instead.

* * *

The next morning is sunny and bright in the most obnoxious sort of way, when the sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains just so and slants across his eyes in a way that makes him squeeze them shut against the onslaught. He's never been a morning person, and this morning he dreads more than most.

At seven thirty sharp, Roger, their butler, has all of their suitcases and belongings packed carefully into the trunk of the Rolls. His mother is done-up in a face full of make-up, wearing panty-hose and pumps and a matching skirt-jacket-suit combo. His father is dressed slightly more casually, wearing tan slacks and a suit jacket, but Roman thinks they both look ridiculous considering the occasion.

They all pack into the car, with Charles electing to sit in the front seat with Roger, who'll drive. Roman doesn't blame his father, because he doesn't want to be near his mother either. The level of her excitement is making his head pound; she is practically vibrating in her seat with the force of her enthusiasm. He swears his mother is a force of nature all her own. Her smile may be fake, but he'll be damned if it isn't two-hundred watts and blinding as all hell.

"Won't this be a marvelous change, Roman?" she asks, and there she is vibrating again, like she's going to burst through the roof of the car or something.

An hour and a half later, they're pulling up alongside the massive iron-cast gates that the mansion and its vast yard with winding paths and water fountains are enclosed in.

"A whole month of roughing it here, away from it all," his father pipes up from the front seat.

Roman frowns at the large house, with its rustic exterior, four-pillared porch, and glazed, iron casement windows.

Trading in one mansion for another, really.

After they park, Roger leads the way inside, unlocking the massive double doors, suitcases in hand as they enter the foyer. He sets the suitcases down just inside the door and enters further to turn on the lights, illuminating the rustic, metal spiral staircase that leads upstairs and the pale, floral-papered walls. The furniture is wooden and unpolished. The drapes look as if they've been collecting dust for years without interruption.

The place also reeks of firewood and it makes his nose itch.

He hates it already.

"Isn't this quaint!" his mother crows, delighted by the old-timey charm. She turns to him with an expectant look. "Well, do you like our little summer retreat?"

Roman glances around and forces one corner of his mouth into something that might be considered a smile, even if his disappointment cannot be masked. "Yeah," he says. "Marvelous."

* * *

Two hours later, Roman swears on his life that this town is hell incarnate.

His mother insists that its "quaint"—which apparently is the only word in her vocabulary today, because it's all she's been able to say about anything, and it may also be a euphemism for, "This is different and I don't think I like it but I'll pretend that I do". He thinks this whole thing is more of a culture shock than she's letting on. The dust inside the house makes her sneeze at every turn, it's questionable as to when the bedding was last washed, and Roman_knows_ he heard the pitter-patter of little feet in one of the cupboards in the kitchen. That he'll keep to himself. He's going to shit himself when his mother finds the poor bastard. He can't wait to see her reaction.

This is why they're out "exploring" the town on their first night, barely even unpacked, his mother insisting that they all needed some "fresh air".

Here's the thing: Harrisville is the equivalent of No Man's Land. Roman half expects to see a tumbleweed drift across the sidewalk. The place is dead. Decrepit. If the town were a human, it'd be a ninety year-old man in his last dregs of life, wearing a hearing aid and bug-eyed glasses and using a cane to shuffle slowly down the cracked and poorly patched-up sidewalks.

There is a hardware store, a gas station with an adjoining minimart called "In-N-Out", a dry-cleaners, a sad looking grocery store with shopping carts strewn all over the parking lot like metal pieces of trash in a junkyard, and, finally, a seedy looking bar advertising _HAPY HOUR AT 6, _with an "at" sign instead of the actual letters. Completing the look is the drooping telephone wires that line either side of the street, held up by wooden poles that look like they'll keel over with the slightest gust of wind.

Beyond that, there's just woods; pine trees that stretch on for miles, for as far as the eye can see.

In the span of twenty minutes, they've circled the entire town and have seen it all.

Roman's mother looks like she's trying desperately hard not to squirm, because she knows it's awful like the rest of them all do but refuses to admit defeat. Her face is pinched and pulled tight in a way he's seen before, and he knows she's either seconds away from crying or bursting into a smile and exclaiming, "How quaint!"

He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his slacks as the three of them stand on the sidewalk. It's too fucking hot to be wearing what he's wearing, and even though it was a short walk, he's already sweating through his jacket. Tugging the collar of his shirt away from his neck does little to help. He'd give anything for air conditioning right now.

"How about we see a movie?" his father suggests, and it's the most he's said all evening; he hasn't risen to any of his mother's baiting attempts at conversation.

"That's a wonderful idea," she agrees, and Roman notes it is with considerably less enthusiasm than she was displaying earlier on in the day. He hopes she'll be so unimpressed by everything that she'll want to pack up by the end of the movie and go back to Gotham.

There's only one theater in Harrisville, and it screens approximately four movies. His mother chooses "Remus and Efram", which is an animated movie about talking foxes and raccoons who wear sweaters and top hats. From what he can make of the poster outside, one of the raccoons is a masked bandit.

He's sure it's a cute little movie if you're, you know, _five_. Roman is twelve.

Often he feels like his mother forgets that.

He agrees to the movie with forced enthusiasm though, because right now he'd do just about anything to get out of this fucking heat and the trees and the mosquitoes that buzz insistently around his head that make him feel like he's a walking corpse and they're just waiting to gorge themselves on his flesh.

Afterwards, after having sat in a cool, dark theater for an hour and a half and having splurged on a large Pepsi, a Mars bar, and a bucket full of popcorn, he feels refreshed and even sort of happy. He realizes that the movie really hadn't been as bad as he'd been expecting. The little raccoon bandit had been kind of funny, and Roman had felt a strange sort of kinship with it, like the little raccoon understood him.

He keeps that to himself, of course. He isn't about to tell his mother he identifies with an animated raccoon voiced by Wayne Allwine.

It was a comedic, "modern" retelling of the classic Robin Hood tale—the story of the raccoon's—in that he was forced to don a mask so he could steal food (which was being unjustly hoarded by the king) for all the raccoons and other woodland creatures in his village.

While Roman's own mask is not worn for such heroic and noble causes, it is still forced upon him, not only by his mother and father but by the societal expectations that daily surrounded him. If he had a dime for every time some bigwig told him he'd make an excellent executive for his father's company, well, he'd be richer than Janus Cosmetics and could fucking buy it out if he pleased. Nobody ever asked Roman what he wanted to do, who he wanted to become; it was a given he'd work for Janus one day, follow in the wake his father's glossy footprints left behind.

For once in his life, Roman feels that his plight is understood, his struggles not entirely unnoticed. The raccoon may not have been real, but the knowledge that someone, animated and fake though he was, had experienced the same things Roman did was still a comfort all the same. Remus and Efram had felt like having Roman's story played out on the big screen for the entire audience to see. His parents were oblivious to the parallels, of course, did not notice the similarities to Roman's own life—not that he expected them too. His father could predict the dips and rises the stock market would take, and his mother could guess what entrees would be served at the Lou Gehrig's Disease Awareness ball, but they were both blind when it came to Roman, to seeing their son for who he really was.

Fuck it, even _Roman_ doesn't know who he really is, not beneath all the masks he wears. Has he become too acclimated to them? Has he become the very person he had vowed never to become?

The more he thinks about it on their drive back to the summer cottage, the more it plagues him. His mother is blessedly silent, and, in a rare gesture of affection, rests her head on her husband's shoulder. She is tired, but she keeps her eyes open, staring ahead at some unidentifiable point to Roman's right.

For his part, Roman stares out the window with an expression of thinly-concealed rage, rhythmically clenching his fists the more he wonders whether he and the raccoon are really all that alike. He has never felt as lost as he does in that moment, so conflicted over the person he has become. It seems to hit him full force, all at once: Roman is not a good person. He has no friends, doesn't have any hobbies, hates doing charity work, is never _happy_. He is a phony, a hackneyed version of his parents, another Sionis meant to carry on the legacy of their family name.

The shock of that last realization makes something dark coil in his gut he's never felt before, a strange cocktail of sadness and anger. He feels bellicose and desperate and belligerent and hopeless all at once.

He has to get out of here.

* * *

Roman does not sleep that night. The sheets are scratchy and not at all like the 1000 count Egyptian cotton he's used to. The comforter is too hot and twists around his bare legs like a wool serpent, and he's sweating something mad, already having divested himself of his sleep pants and t-shirt. He lays half under and on top of the covers wearing just his boxers.

The summer house is so damn hot, and he hopes that his mother and father are suffering just as much as he is.

He rolls over onto his side and stares out the window that overlooks the back of the house, where there is a garden littered with trellises and brick pathways and those weird-ass fountains with the naked little cherub spitting water out of its mouth.

Beyond that, though, is a tangle of trees, a woods so thick and black in the dark, he can only dream of what sort of dangers lurk within. With the pale moon overhead, he can make out the outline of naked branches of dead pines against the skyline; they look like black veins against the navy blue of the sky, veins crawling towards a white moon, as if they intend to swell over the moon's sinewy thumbnail curves and eventually burst, infect it with poison.

The more he stares at the woods, the more confident he grows. He knows what he has to do.

He can't stop thinking about the revelation he had after the movie earlier that evening, and it eats at something inside of him, a truth he had ignored, and it becomes hard not to imagine that those tree-branch veins are inside him in the same way they hope to be inside the moon, and in the end they will infect him too.

He has to leave, run away. It's the only way he'll ever have a chance of finding himself, the only way he'll ever be able to remove the mask that has become an almost permanent extension of himself.

His parents will not even miss him, only the thought of his legacy and the loss of a family heir, another Sionis chess piece.

Roman's always hated chess.

He turns over onto his back and stares at the white canopy draped above the wooden four-poster bed. When the small air conditioning vent on the ceiling comes on, it makes the canopy billow slightly, like a ghost come to life. Roman gives the ghost a face and watches its small twists and turns until the face disappears and the way the canopy billows develops a pattern. Down, to the left, then up, and down again. Repeat.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and thinks.

Tomorrow he leaves.

* * *

It is hot the next day. At eight o'clock, the sun is already smiling high and bright, happy and yellow and all too pleased to shine. Roman slips out after having breakfast alone, telling Roger through a mouthful of fluffy scrambled eggs that he plans to explore the grounds. He finishes off his orange juice and dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin before leaving.

That's one good thing he likes about the help. They don't ask a lot of questions and they don't give a damn about what he does and how he spends his time.

He has nothing with him when he leaves. There are no woods in Gotham, not at the Sionis Estate, and while Roman doesn't know what to expect, what kind of things might lurk or tools he might need, he's not scared or worried. Excitement bubbles inside him instead. He's doing it, he's finally doing it. He's going to be himself. He's going to be free of the damn masks, of his parent's smothering expectations.

He winds his way through the garden and to the picket gate that opens up into the wild, unkempt grass. It's so tall that it makes his arms itch where he's unbuttoned his long sleeves and hiked them up to his elbows. He swats the grass out of his way as he walks, feels the slightest gust of wind whisper against the nape of his neck, and before he knows it he's reached a small, narrow creek; it separates the grassy field from the tree line.

The woods look less scary up close. The trees are so thick that it prevents him from seeing very far ahead, but he bends to roll up his slacks in case they get wet as he finds some stones he can step on to cross the creek.

He doesn't think much while he walks, doesn't think about where he's going or what he'll do when he gets there, whether his parents will organize a search party when they realize he's gone or when and how he's going to eat, sleep, find clean water. He thinks of none of this, too absorbed in the scenery, the sounds, and the smells. It's cooler in the woods, what with the shade, and he finds that he likes the way the sunbeams slate through the trees, and he likes the fallen branches and round logs littering the forest floor that are covered in soft, green moss. He can hear birds twittering, can smell the dirt and dead leaves that shift beneath him as he walks. All of it is a new sensation to him. He's a city boy through and through, and there are no woods to explore in Gotham, no trees to climb and paths to explore and birds that sing like the ones that flit from tree to tree above him now.

He finds himself wondering how different he'd be if he hadn't been born in Gotham, if he had been given the opportunity to explore or be a Boy Scout or go on adventures. Maybe he'd be more daring and brave and have the balls to stand up to his parents and hold his ground.

He thinks about that for a while, creates an imaginary life outside of Gotham for himself, and is so lost in his thoughts that he becomes startled by the sound of rustling leaves just to his right. He stops and whips his head in that direction, but his shoulders relax when he realizes it's just a raccoon.

His mouth quirks into a small, half smile. The raccoon reminds him of the one from Remus and Efram. It's on the ground half hidden beneath a fallen branch, and it digs its claws into the dirt, blinks at him owlishly.

"Hi, bandit," he says. He waits—almost as if expecting some kind of response—but is not sure what to do next. He feels wary for a second when it starts to approach him, but that wears off quickly. He looked friendly enough.

Roman's eyes are drawn to its 'mask' though, intrigued. He outstretches his hand so the raccoon can sniff it, kind of like how he did to cats when he was a boy. He doesn't notice the foam gathering at the corner of the creature's mouth, nor its glazed over eyes—and even if he had, he wouldn't have known that it meant the animal was rabid.

It approaches slowly, and to Roman it looks scared and lost. "Here, bandit." Roman bends down a little so he's not towering over him.

That's when the raccoon is close enough to snap its neck forward and sink its sharp teeth into Roman's pointer and middle finger.

The raccoon releases him after only a second, and Roman gasps and pulls his hand back the moment it does, clutching his hand to his chest as it throbs in excruciating pain.

It watches him with beady black eyes now, head tilted as if curious as to what Roman will do, but all Roman feels is panic.

_It bit me,_ he thinks, dumbly, even as his lungs heave as he struggles for breath. He feels something wet and warm trickle down his arm, and his eyes widen almost comically.

_Blood. _

He's never bled in his entire life, not once, not even as a child. He's never seen so much of it before, not on another person and certainly not on himself. He vaguely recalls the time Ricky Brown had punched an upperclassman in the third grade and made his nose bleed, but this... the blood is_gushing_, and the only thing he knows to do is hold his hand close to his chest and not think too hard about how slick his hands are becoming and how the blood is trickling down his bare forearm and into his shirt.

His eyes dart back to the raccoon, and he trips on a tree root when he takes a step backwards to get away. He lands on his back, effectively knocking the wind out of him, and he gasps for air that isn't there. He rolls over onto his side, curling into the fetal position while he wheezes for breath.

He's frantic though, afraid the raccoon might attack again, so he forces himself to his feet. His breath eventually returns. The raccoon is still there, watching him, and he wills his legs to work and takes off in what he hopes is the direction of the summer house.

He's uncertain of whether he's going in the right direction. Falling on his back had disoriented him, but he doesn't stop running. He has to get away from the raccoon.

The trees around him create a maze, and the harder he tries to think about which way he came from and what tree stumps look familiar, the dizzier he becomes.

His eyes are wet with tears, blinding him as he stumbles through the trees, and when he goes to wipe the wetness away, he only succeeds in smearing blood. He sees red and it horrifies him even more.

He trips again, this time down a small embankment and into wet, soppy mud. With his wounded hand still curled to his chest, it leaves only one hand free to catch himself as he falls, but he doesn't fully extend his arm in time and his shoulder takes the brunt of the impact. The mud is sticky and warm, and it clings to his sweaty skin. When he looks up to gain his bearings, the world is spinning. The trees around him appear to converge, bending low to the ground and then swaying upwards to stand erect again. Mosquitoes, larger than he's ever seen before, swarm his eyes too, and he is helpless to swat them away. The sky is blue and distorted and dips in time with the trees.

Every one of his reflexes feels slowed and delayed, like those dreams he sometimes has where he's running but it is ever fast enough and always feels like he's running through molasses.

He's not sure how much time has passed when he manages to pull himself to his feet and out of the mud, but it's dusk now, and he can hear the constant buzz and hum of crickets and frogs around him. His entire hand is throbbing, and he clutches it to his chest like a cripple as his legs tremble beneath him. It's an effort to climb out of the embankment, and even though it's not very steep, twice he slips, and one of those times he reaches out for a vine, only to have his palm pricked by a sharp, needle-like pain. He hears his mother's voice in his head, sees a younger version of himself. _"Now, Roman, don't you touch the thorns on those rose bushes!"_

Roman is panting hard when he finally manages to climb out of the embankment, and he lies on his belly for a moment as he tries to catch his breath. Something beats and throbs hard against his chest, and he's not sure if it's his heart or his injured hand; the fact that he's unable to even make the distinction is startling to him.

He raises himself up on one arm, knowing he has to try and walk again, but he is too weak, and when he looks up, his lids fall shut over his eyes. He can't keep them open for more than a few seconds. His body sinks into the ground, his head drops, cheek pressed to the cold, hard earth, and he sobs into the dirt. A cold sweat has gathered along his brow and upper lip, and he tastes the sour tang of it on his tongue. It only serves to remind him how thirsty he is, how it's been hours since that glass of orange juice he had earlier that morning for breakfast. To Roman it feels like days ago.

He screams for Roger again and again, until his voice is hoarse and he can't scream anymore. They must be searching for him by now, they must.

He doesn't remember slipping into unconsciousness, but when he has and opens his eyes to the dream world, Efram is there, the raccoon bandit from the movie, and he's dressed in a little red sweater. He gives a friendly smiles and gestures with his arm, and even though he doesn't speak, Roman knows he means to say, "Follow me!"

Roman does follow him, as wide-eyed and innocent as he'd been earlier that morning before getting bitten, as Efram leads him deeper into the forest. He doesn't know where they're going, but the longer he trails behind Efram, the more he notices how the little raccoon begins to change. He seems to become larger with every step, and the hair on his back begins to bristle and turn sharp like needles. Its ears are no longer floppy and soft but turn large and pointed, reminding him of devil's horns.

Soon the raccoon has grown taller than Roman, six feet tall and then ten. And in its last stage of transformation, its body widens and the red sweater shreds, unable to accommodate the raccoon's wide new girth.

That's when it spins around and faces Roman, baring its massive fangs and even more massive claws. Its eyes are large and yellow and hungry, fixed on Roman as it bares its teeth. Roman screams, but there is no time to run, no time for him to overcome the sudden paralysis of fear. The raccoon opens it jaws, his fangs the length of Roman's forearms, and out slips it long, slimy red tongue. The muscle lashes towards Roman like a whip, curls around his throat in a vice and snaps him forward into the raccoon's massive mouth.

The stench is hot and unbearable, and Roman screams as he is swallowed past those sharp teeth, down, down that long stretch of dark, wet throat into an even darker belly. There, where he lands in a red pool, acid bubbles, and his skin _burns_, and when he looks up, he can see the long, gigantic tongue descending back into the cavern of the raccoon's mouth. It's not done with Roman, not yet. He screams, and his throat becomes raw from it until it fills with acid, and then he burns.

He burns and it never stops.

* * *

It's daylight when he wakes. His eyes flutter open to a sterile white hospital room. The two chairs on the other side of the room for guests are vacant, and the sunlight filtering in between the blinds reminds him of the way it trickled through the trees in the forest, and his body jolts at the memory. He blinks down at his hand and sees the white, clean bandage. No more blood.

His mother comes in just moments later, and she must not have been expecting him to be awake because she startles when she meets his eyes, letting out a little screech. Her paper coffee cup drops to the ground at the same time. The lid miraculously stays on. She doesn't bend to pick it up.

He waits for her to speak, to say something, but she just stares at him, wide-eyed and almost frightened, like she doesn't even recognize him.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. His voice is still sore from screaming. "What happened?"

Too many seconds pass before his mother answers. "You're fine, Roman," she says, and he finds it strange the way she says it, so pained, like she doesn't believe it. She looks away when she speaks, and in fact, she suddenly won't look at him at all. "Roger found you in the woods. Apparently you were bitten by some sort of filthy rabid animal. But don't you worry—we brought in the best available doctor by helicopter." She swallowed, still won't look at him. "We'll be going home soon. Get some rest." She does look at him then, plasters on a smile that is meant to be kind and reassuring, but Roman recognizes it for the mask it really is—a look to mask her discomfort.

Roman can't bring himself to say anything, but his eyes follow her out of the room as she leaves. There is a window that looks out into the hall, and he watches his mother through the half-drawn blinds as she pauses outside his closed door and sobs into her hands.

He tries not to think too hard about that.

* * *

Two days later, they're back at the summer house. Roman is mostly recovered, save for the bandage he'll have to wear over his hand for a minimum of two more weeks if he doesn't want a scar to form, but things aren't really the same. Roman hasn't spoken much since the incident. His mother and father never ask him what he was doing in the woods, and he never tells.

Roman feels angry, though, angry and strangely betrayed by the little raccoon who had attacked him. It's a stupid thing to feel, it was just an animal, after all, but he can't help feeling like he was taken advantage of, somehow, or duped by his own naivety. He had never felt so powerless, so out of control. If the incident had taught him anything at all, it was a lesson about masks, and that everyone wore them.

And that some masks were more deceiving than others.

He would never forget that.

Downstairs, they're ready to leave, now, and Roger is loading their belongings into the car. Roman is coming down the stairwell, and his parents are standing by the open front door, talking in low, heated voices. He pauses becomes distracted watching Roger arranging their belongings in the trunk of the car for a moment, and then tears his gaze away to focus on his parents, who don't see him standing there on the stairs.

"I tell you he's not the same boy, Charles. His eyes—he's so _strange_."

His father's own eyes light with fire. "He's been strange since the day he was _born_, and if you'd have let me _sue _that incompetent, butter-fingered doctor for malpractice—"

His mother interrupts with a pointed finger and narrowed eyes. "We'll not get into that again! The very _idea _of dragging our names and faces through the papers in a common lawsuit simply because Roman was dropped on his head." She huffs, sounding like a petulant child, cheeks all red and flushed in anger. "Let's just get _away_ from this dreadful place." Her heels clack as she brushes past his father and down the stone steps to the gravel drive. Roman doesn't wait to see if his father follows, and instead ducks back behind the curve of the stairwell for a moment where he won't be seen.

He has to steady his hand—the injured one—against the wall to keep himself from falling down the stairs.

Suddenly he can't catch his breath because he's so _angry_, and it feels like falling down that embankment in the woods all over again.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ I've already begun work on chapter two and would like to have it posted sometime soon. If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. Comments and constructive criticisms are more than welcome.

For anyone who may have been curious, Wayne Allwine, born 1947, was the voice actor for Mickey Mouse in 1977 up until his death in 2009.


End file.
